Flock Together
by Adurna Skulblaka
Summary: The feathers in a person's wings tell a story. Sherlock never relied on them before, but after his return he reconsiders. After all, they give him an insight into the period of time he was separated from John, and what he finds makes him think carefully about how to proceed. (Winglock AU)


**Author's note: This is something I've been working on for a while, as I wanted to try out something for the winglock 'verse. And here it is: _Flock Together. _**

**In my version of this AU, everyone has wings. I'll use John's wings as an example of how the rules work. Everyone has a base colour (John's is sandy yellow). Think of the wings as a timeline: the further down you go, the further in their life you go. So John's feathers would take on more colours as he gained experiences, lighter colours representing happier times while darker ones showed more troubled ones; John's light colour would be blonde, his dark one would be brown. As these experiences get further away, it's common for a the forgotten memory-feathers to fall out and be replaced with other ones.**

**Hopefully that will help you get an idea of how things work when you read this. **

**Now that's out of the way, enjoy!**

* * *

When John first met Sherlock, he hadn't even glanced at his wings. Most people did just out of curiosity, as it gave them a glimpse into the life of the person. But John's gaze had moved past Sherlock's wings and straight to the man himself. John had been stunned by the incredible deductions he'd made – were the effects of the past few months that obvious? – but he'd soon learned that Sherlock didn't rely on a person's wings.

One of the first things Sherlock had said to him on that day had been, '_Feathers do not tell a story, John. True, they set the tone of one, but they do not give the detail I require. It's possible to lie in them, too; one would expect a murderer's wings to be black, but it's possible that they would see what they did as a happy memory rather than a distressing one, and so they would be light. _

_ 'Don't rely on feathers.'_

John hadn't been able to help studying Sherlock's wings then.

He tended to hold them loosely from his body, not minding if the tips touched the ground. They were quite large, even for a male's, but John put that down to his superior attitude. While he'd often seen a person's wings start in a solid colour of some kind, Sherlock's were… different. The feathers at the very top, along the ridge of the structure, began as a pale grey, and darkened the further down they went. Then they dissolved into a mixture of various shades of the very same colour, leaving no pattern behind that John could find.

All he noticed was that the very ends had lightened marginally in the days since they'd met.

In comparison to John's, the colour seemed rather… dull. But he couldn't deny that the feathers seemed glossier - they were no doubt silky to the touch - and anyway, the grey suited Sherlock. John tried to imagine any other colour on his feathers, and admitted to himself that anything else would have looked odd on the detective.

John had stretched out one of his own wings and glanced down at it as the cab had taken them back to 221B after '_A Study in Pink'_ – John had decided to write it up and post it on his blog, and that was the name he had given it. His therapist _had_ told him to keep track, after all.

His feathers were sandy, with flashes of brown here and there, especially towards the lower quarter of his wings: Afghanistan, no doubt, had done that to them. There was the odd blonde one through the various beiges, and was it just his imagination, but were those pale yellow ones more common towards the bottom of the wing?

Only time would tell.

Cases came and went, and months passed. John kept up with his blog and told the stories of Sherlock's best cases – not that he appreciated it, ungrateful git – and silently kept track of the changes in his wings. Within a couple of weeks of moving in with Sherlock, he could confirm that they were indeed growing lighter at the ends.

When '_The Blind Banker'_ came along, John wasn't certain but he thought he noticed a slightly ruffled look about Sherlock whenever Sarah, his girlfriend at the time, came along. While he wasn't exactly kind, he wasn't impolite either. Frosty was the right word. John decided to ignore it.

There had been no denying the fact that Sherlock had seemed like an avenging angel when he'd rescued John and Sarah, though. The relief that had pooled in John's stomach at the sight of his friend would have made his legs go weak under any other circumstances, but he'd still had to stop an arrow from hitting Sarah, so he'd shoved aside any thoughts of having trembling limbs. All three of them came out of it safe and sound.

But then there was Moriarty.

John was no stranger to fear; there had been plenty of that in Afghanistan. He allowed himself to feel it, but he controlled his reactions. He didn't let it overwhelm him. John acknowledged it, processed it, and then used it to fuel the sensible course of action instead.

But when he was at the pool, strapped to a vest of bombs so tightly it pressed his wings against his back and made them ache, John had found that he'd struggled to do that. Especially when Sherlock had appeared and, for a fleeting moment, had thought that he, John Watson, was Moriarty. John had seen it in the disbelief in flash of disbelief on Sherlock's face. He'd wanted to deny it instantly, force that betrayal out of Sherlock's steady gaze, but any deviation from Moriarty's script would have killed them both in an instant. So he'd stayed silent, and thankfully Moriarty had revealed himself soon after.

John had noticed Sherlock's flicker of fascination upon seeing Moriarty's wings; he'd felt it himself, when he'd first seen the man.

Jim's wings were smaller than usual. While the average man's ended around knee-length, Jim's tapered off by his waist. That didn't stop him from being intimidating, far from it; like Sherlock, he arched them, held them away from his body to give himself a more imposing appearance.

But that wasn't the only thing that had caught Sherlock's attention. John knew him too well by now to know that he'd stop once he noticed the size of them.

The ridge was a light, fluffy grey, almost like a signet's. But, the further on this grey continued, the darker it became, until gradually it tipped over into black. The thing that had made John shiver when he first saw it, though, wasn't the fact that the feathers were black. Oh, no.

It was because his wings _shone._

The condition of a person's feathers depended on their current state of mind just as much as the colour of them did. Moriarty wasn't unhappy.

He had been _enjoying _himself.

When John had tackled Jim in an attempt to guarantee Sherlock freedom – which had ultimately failed – he accidentally ended up pressing the top of Jim's left wing into his chin. Like the baby bird the light grey reminded him of, the feathers at the very top of his wing were fluffy and soft, almost wispy.

_What would Sherlock make of that?_ John wondered.

A lot after that was a blur. Sherlock had pulled the vest off of him, and there had been another confrontation but they'd managed to escape - thanks to someone who 'gave him a better offer', according to Sherlock.

And so they'd returned to 221B, weary (in John's case) and intrigued – though the latter was more Sherlock. John was just relieved to be alive and home again.

It wasn't long until they found out just who gave Jim the better offer.

Sherlock's brother contacted them with a request for their help in a case involving a woman by the name of 'Irene Adler'. Miss Adler's introduction was one that John wouldn't forget. He'd returned to the living room of her home with the first aid kit for Sherlock's bleeding cheek to see her standing in front of the detective, naked, with her wings held away from her body so nothing was covered.

Needless to say, John had been flustered. Sherlock, on the other hand, had simply looked blank.

Irene's wings were as unusual as the woman herself. Instead of following the tradition of telling her story through colours, her feathers were mostly the same: dark bloody red. There was the odd variation here and there – a random, slightly lighter feather – but mostly they were just the same.

It was almost unheard of.

Throughout their encounter with Irene, John had noticed that Irene attempted to make advances on Sherlock, but the poor man didn't quite know what to do with himself. That, or he knew exactly what he was doing, and he was acting naïve on purpose. If John was a betting man, he would put his money on the latter.

He certainly hoped that that was the case. And he wasn't jealous.

At all.

_Really._

When he and Sherlock went to Dartmoor, John saw something he never thought he would ever lay eyes on: Sherlock appearing scared.

It came after their first trip to Dewer's Hollow. John had followed his own lead while Sherlock disappeared into the woods with their client, Henry Knight, and when he'd returned to the pub he'd seen Sherlock in a state that, frankly, worried him. But that hadn't even been the worst part.

If John was perfectly honest with himself, the bit that hurt the most was when Sherlock gave John the scathing retort, "I don't have _friends_!"

Oh, and then there was the point when Sherlock experimented on him in the lab. Needless to say, that hadn't been the proudest moment of John's life. He'd truly believed that the hound had been in the room with him, stalking and snarling, and he'd been more than relieved when Sherlock had found him - but, of course, Sherlock had only done the whole thing for scientific purposes.

The case that John later called '_The Hounds of Baskerville'_ was perhaps the time when they realised just how much they needed each other.

And that left just one tale left to tell. There had been many other adventures the pair had been on, but this last was one of the remaining significant ones.

Moriarty came back. He teased and taunted Sherlock with clues, dragged him out and, slowly, carefully, almost _lovingly_ began to burn him, bit by bit. There wasn't a single thing John could do to stop it, no matter how hard he tried or how much he believed in his friend.

John knew it was over the moment Sherlock called him from the roof of St. Bart's. It physically pained him to hear Sherlock say 'I'm a fake', because John could tell in his gut that it _wasn't true_ _at all_. But Sherlock wouldn't be convinced otherwise, it seemed.

As beautiful as the wings were, as strong as they looked, they weren't intended for flight.

* * *

Afterwards, the new feathers in John's wings were the darkest they'd ever been. They passed the brown that represented Afghanistan and even hovered near the point where they would change to a dark shade of chocolate. Of course there were points when some of them grew to be a lighter tan colour, but they never quite reached the blonde of before.

But John carried on like the solider he was, determined to continue as he had before. Now and again he helped Greg with the odd case here and there, where his medical knowledge was needed as well as the few things he'd picked up from Sherlock. John was well aware that he wasn't the best at deductions – that person was long gone.

And on he marched, slipping through life. The years had their ups and downs, John didn't just _exist_ as he had in the beginning, and he soon started to make sense of things again. He got better at doing detective work. He learned to love being a doctor again, instead of worrying that he couldn't save people; there had been a period shortly after Sherlock's death where he'd blamed himself, and consequently placed doubt in his own medical skills. But that, like everything else, passed.

John lived – sort of. He felt stable. He wasn't perfect, but he wasn't terrible, either.

* * *

It had been a long day at the surgery, and just as John had been about to call a taxi to go home, Greg had texted him with a request for help. It was with heavy, tired limbs that he dragged himself over to Scotland Yard, only to find that he wasn't needed at all.

"Sorry, mate," Greg apologised, a twinkle in his eyes that John hadn't seen in a long time. It was only there when the Detective Inspector was truly happy. Maybe he'd sorted things out with his wife again; John glanced at Greg's hand and, sure enough, there was a shiny band around his third finger.

John forced a smile. "No problem," he replied. God, his back ached; he needed a good, hot bath, and a cup of tea to go with it. A relaxing evening would do him some good.

Greg clapped him on the shoulder, and if he wasn't mistaken Greg's wings did that uncontrollable quivery-thing that meant excitement. Before John had any time to ask what was on his mind, Greg turned him by the shoulders and nudged him towards the door. "You're wilting, John. I've got something for you, but it can wait. Go on home, and I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

So, puzzled, John went back to 221B, wondering what on earth that had all been about. He found himself dozing in the cab despite his confusion, and he was barely awake by the time he reached Baker Street. He apologised to the driver, paid his fare, and then spent a good couple of minutes digging through his pockets for his keys.

It was only when John was inside that he noticed something was different.

The feeling he had was similar to the one he used to get when his mum went into his bedroom as a teenager to tidy up a bit and moved things around in the process. It was probably just Mrs. Hudson doing exactly that: cleaning. He shrugged it off.

John headed upstairs, pulling his jacket off as he went. He stretched his wings luxuriously when he reached the door, revelling in the stretch of muscle. His left wing had always been a bit weaker than his right ever since Afghanistan, but it wasn't as bad as it had been when he'd first come back to the UK. Breathing a heavy sigh, John unlocked the door to the flat and went inside.

He froze.

Blinked.

Pinched himself.

Blinked again.

He clearly needed more sleep, because there was no way in hell Sherlock Holmes could be stood by the window.

And yet, there were little differences in his appearance that John couldn't possibly imagine, even in his most vivid dreams (or, depending on how his mind felt, nightmares).

John had the feeling that Sherlock hadn't been home long. He was wearing a clean suit, one of his old ones that neither John nor Mrs. Hudson had had the heart to throw out. His hair was a little bit longer and shaggier, but definitely the curly brown that John remembered. As Sherlock turned his head to fix his pale blue gaze on John, he noticed a shadow of stubble over the other man's jaw; Sherlock despised having facial hair, so he couldn't have had time to shave properly.

His wings…

John pulled his own closer to his body, reaching down to touch the lower feathers as he studied Sherlock's.

As if he could read John's mind, Sherlock spread his, allowing John to have a clear view of the story his feathers told. The tops of them remained the mess of grey and black they had always been, but as John looked down them, the colour smoothed out into dark grey. No other colour punctuated this band; if the detective stayed still, they might have looked like they'd been carved out of stone.

Sherlock had had a hard time.

John let his feathers slip from between his fingers. He folded his arms, turning his pose into a defensive one. His wings remained pressed against his sides as a shield.

"Well?"

Sherlock shifted his own position. John was surprised at how good he had become at reading things like this, and noticing them instead of just letting them through his mind subconsciously. Sherlock returned his wings to their natural position but let them droop just a little – a submissive gesture. He kept his arms by his sides, and otherwise his posture remained neutral.

"It was necessary, John."

John felt his heart sink. He'd been hoping for an apology to be the first thing Sherlock said but, then again, he _was_ Sherlock, wasn't he? He was all about whether something needed to be done, and if it was, how to go about it. Emotions were never his best thing.

So, naturally, John's temper flared. "Necessary?" he growled, narrowing his eyes. "_Necessary_ for you to jump off a bloody building? _Necessary_ for you to disappear off the face of the earth for three years? _Necessary _for me to think you were dead?"

Sherlock remained impassive throughout John's outburst. Only when the doctor trailed off into silence did he speak again. "If you'd allow me to explain, I would." Sherlock's voice was firm, leaving no room for discussion; John was going to get an explanation whether he wanted it or not. John doubted the detective would even let him leave the room until he was done.

"Fine," John spat. He uncrossed his arms and stalked through into the kitchen to put the kettle on. When in doubt, make tea. John had to admit, he did feel more at ease going through the familiar motions.

He felt rather than saw Sherlock drift after him. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed it. John placed two cups on the side without asking if Sherlock wanted a drink or not, and he was relieved that Sherlock didn't attempt to talk until they both had a hot cup of tea cradled in their hands.

"Right," John sighed, nodding. He leaned back against the counter, and refused acknowledge even in his mind that it was for support. "Let's hear it."

Even though Sherlock was halfway through a sip of his tea – made how Sherlock wanted it, which was surprising; John still remembered, even after all that time – he quickly swallowed the boiling liquid and launched into an explanation.

It was annoyingly brief.

"You, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were in danger, John. It was me or you three. I couldn't… I had to do it. You of all people should understand. _Sentiment_," Sherlock growled, shaking his head sharply. "Despite my best efforts to avoid it, it caught up to me in the end."

John wasn't satisfied. "But why three years?" he asked, brow furrowing.

At that, Sherlock shook his head. "I had things to do. I can't explain them; if I told you, it would only place you in danger again."

John bristled. He set his nearly empty cup on the counter and glared at Sherlock. "Don't you think I deserve to know? Christ, do you even know what I went through while you were gone?" Running a hand through his hair, John let out a short, harsh laugh that was completely empty of humour.

It could almost be a sob.

"This is the most emotion I've shown in God-knows-how-long," John continued, his hand dropping to the counter with a thud. "That can't be good, can it? Bugger." Pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes, he turned away.

"John?" Sherlock lightly touched him on the shoulder, and John stiffened under his touch. "John, I-"

"One moment. Please."

Sherlock retreated and went back to his tea.

By the time he had finished, John had composed himself – almost.

"Are you going to tell me how you did it?"

"Doing so would require that I reveal the identities of people who need to remain hidden."

"Right." John nodded, rubbing a hand across his forehead. "Right. Ok. Fair enough. Fine."

Sherlock didn't particularly care for the way John was speaking, and it was time to correct that. He put his empty cup aside and approached. John faced him again, about to give an irritated comment, but it died in his throat when Sherlock wrapped both his arms and his wings around John, pulling him into a hug. John was frozen for a moment, but he eventually relaxed and leaned into Sherlock's hold. He rested his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder, closed his eyes and, for the first time in a long time, breathed easily.

* * *

Just because John didn't force Sherlock out of the flat the moment he came home didn't mean he was going to make his return easy for him.

It was a while before Sherlock brought out his science equipment and started to conduct experiments again, but John made sure to set out a new rule: no experiments in the fridge. Instead, John went out and bought him his own miniature one specifically for that purpose. It was put in Sherlock's room, and while it wasn't as big as he'd like, he didn't complain.

Lestrade gave them a few days of peace before he pounced with the offer of a case. Sherlock promptly agreed and vanished again, and John almost had a heart attack when he came home to find no sign of Sherlock. He started to think he'd just imagined it all when the detective himself strolled through the door. Another new rule: no disappearing without letting John know where he was going and approximately when he would be back. Even Sherlock admitted that that was a fair one.

Finally, there was the one time when Sherlock tried – and failed – to get something from the morgue by flirting with Molly. The poor girl was bright pink and struggling to find the words to let him know that actually, no, he couldn't have Mr. Smith's body, when John stepped in, grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and steered him away. Last new rule: no using a person's emotions to get what he wanted.

It was almost like nothing had changed between them.

* * *

Only, things clearly had altered.

It was a quiet evening in 221B several weeks after Sherlock came home. John had managed to convince Sherlock to sit down and watch some crap telly with him, and while the detective had been reluctant at first, he seemed to have resigned himself to the fact that he wasn't getting out of it. And so they were sprawled on the sofa with their feet up on the table, their ankles almost touching, with John flicking through the TV channels to find them something to watch. He settled on a game show of some kind and relaxed into the sofa cushions.

Around halfway through, he noticed Sherlock wasn't watching.

He was staring at John's wing.

In dropping onto the sofa, they'd pretty much flung their limbs out in all directions. John had spread his wings across the back of it, where it was more comfortable. Sherlock, on the other hand, had his back against the arm of the sofa and his legs stretched across at an angle to reach the table. As a result, the end of John's wing was resting by Sherlock's face, and he hadn't been able to resist studying it.

John shifted uncomfortably. "What?"

As per usual for Sherlock, he reached up and trailed his fingertips across his feathers without permission. They wandered over the end of the dark stripe across the middle, where the browns faded back into blonde and sandy feathers.

Sherlock caught John's gaze and held it. "You missed me."

It was the first time they'd approached the topic of Sherlock's fake death since his return. Sherlock continued to brush his fingers over John's feathers, almost apologetically now, and John looked away. He nudged Sherlock's shin with his knee, and made an attempt at a cheery tone. "Of course I missed you, you big idiot."

Sherlock reached out and trapped John's foot between both of his as it moved away again. "Even I know that humour is _a bit not good_ now, John."

John smiled sadly. "Yeah, I know."

They were silent for a moment. Sherlock didn't release John's foot or his wing, and John didn't try to pull out of his hold.

"I… ah… missed you, too," Sherlock muttered. His gaze drifted down to his right wing, which was stretched out lazily towards the floor. The band of solid grey in it was a constant reminder of what he'd put them both through.

It would never go away. It would always be there. Sherlock knew without a doubt that those memories could never be deleted.

John turned his face back to Sherlock, some emotion Sherlock couldn't identify twisting his lips. He frowned, then seemed to steel himself; he nodded towards his own wing, and said, "That wouldn't normally happen if a friend died, you know. It wouldn't be as dark. It would be lighter, a bit less… noticeable."

Sherlock could clearly see where John was going. He took his hand back and sat up, placing his feet on the ground and ignoring John's look of curiosity and surprise. He folded his hands under his chin and stared at the opposite wall. "I'm well aware," he replied quietly.

He paused, waiting for John to say something, but his friend was silent. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how John felt, but he knew his own emotions, despite looking down his nose at sentiment. He inhaled and then deliberately exhaled. He might have misinterpreted what John had meant, he didn't know, but Sherlock was certain that he would feel more comfortable once he'd got it off his chest.

Not to mention John wouldn't let this topic drop without knowing what was on Sherlock's mind.

"I'm hardly the most ideal of partners, John. I doubt it'll be too difficult for you to imagine that." Sherlock's lips twitched up into a half smile, one that was without humour. "I have experience that agrees with that."

"You've been in a relationship?" Sherlock frowned; he was finding it difficult to pick out what had been in John's tone. Surprise, certainly; maybe a little bit of satisfaction; and – oh, God – was that a hint of jealousy?

"Of course I have," Sherlock snorted, rolling his eyes. "I'm not a robot. His name was Victor. He was… good to me. Far better than I deserved," he admitted. "It didn't last."

"Why not?"

"I already told you why; because I'm not an ideal partner. He grew tired of my behaviour and decided to save himself the trouble." Sherlock shrugged. He stretched a wing forward and traced a feather that was middle-grey in colour. Sherlock's finger hovered, and then trailed down to the bottom of his wing, where the lightest ones were. "I drove him away-"

"And you don't want to do the same to me," John interrupted, sounding hesitant and just a tad unsure.

Sherlock didn't move for a long moment, but he eventually gave one short, jerky nod. "I'll be honest, I'm surprised you've allowed me back into your life so easily. I've proven that I can't even serve as a good friend, let alone anything more." Sherlock's hands curled into fists under his chin without his permission, but he didn't relax them. "I don't wish to hurt you again."

He jumped when he felt fingertips touch his cheek. Sherlock glanced over and, once he'd confirmed that John was indeed pressing the palm of his hand to his cheek, he fixed his gaze on the back of one of the armchairs. "John," he murmured gently in warning.

But John shook his head and turned Sherlock to face him, applying just enough pressure with his hand to draw Sherlock back around.

And, to Sherlock's utter surprise, he saw amusement glittering in John's eyes.

"Sherlock," he said, smiling, "we've been through a hell of a lot, and have I ever left because of it? Yeah, I've complained, but you know full well that I'd say if something really bothered me."

Sherlock closed his eyes. This way, he wouldn't have to see John's tentatively hopeful face, or the crushing sadness when he told him that he just _couldn't._ Sherlock wanted to, he really did, but he didn't want to disappoint John. However, instead of the resounding 'no' he'd been planning on saying, he told him, "I can't give you a normal relationship, not what you usually have."

John laughed this time. It was quiet, barely more than a chuckle, but it was there. "When have we ever done normal?"

"Good point," Sherlock conceded. He cracked one eye open to look at John, to really take him in. The doctor clearly wanted this; his body was turned towards Sherlock, his pupils were dilated and, of course, his hand was still lingering on Sherlock's cheek.

John pressed his lips together and his brow crinkled as he frowned, thinking. He caught Sherlock's eye and held it. "What if… what if we tried? We could just stay the same, with the odd relationship thing here and there. It's up to you."

John started to move back, but Sherlock found himself raising his hand to catch John's wrist. He opened his other eye and let them drop to the floor as he considered it.

Slowly, Sherlock turned his hand over to thread his fingers through John's.

"I don't see why we can't."

* * *

And, to Sherlock's surprise and pleasure, it worked.

He and John entered a romantic relationship and were comfortable with it. More than comfortable, in fact; within the first week, Sherlock had asked John to move into his room, and the doctor had accepted. Sherlock had to admit, he found it easier to rest when he had John at his side, either wrapped in his wings or Sherlock in his.

The first time they kissed was one of their evenings at home. Sherlock had decided to indulge John's request for these every now and again, and it had been a natural progression. One moment Sherlock's head had been on John's shoulder while they watched television, the next John's lips were gently brushing over Sherlock's. The detective was chuffed to find out that he enjoyed it, and made certain to steal a kiss from John whenever he could.

They didn't hide their relationship. Mrs. Hudson had been over the moon to find out, and the members of Scotland Yard had simply exchanged wry glances – and money. Apparently, there had been bets on them. Mycroft merely gave the two of them cool congratulations in the form of a dinner reservation at an expensive restaurant. Sherlock grudgingly accepted when John promised him it would be worth his while.

Sherlock couldn't quite keep true to his desire of never hurting John again; that would be impossible for him. There was the accidental slip of the tongue, or the odd remark here and there, but he never truly meant them, and John knew it.

It was clear in their wings that it was right. The lighter areas of the lower parts of their wings was a contrast to the dark bands near the centre, a constant reminder of what they'd both been through to get to where they were now.

They wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

Night had fallen, and Sherlock couldn't sleep. He'd slipped out of bed, leaving the cradle of John's now-fluffy wings to wander through the living room. The weather was turning colder as winter came nearer, so Sherlock drew his own wings closer to his body to provide him with some warmth. His eyesight was caught by something resting on the mantelpiece, and he stepped over to investigate.

Part of keeping wings healthy was grooming them. He and John did that for each other, not just because it was easier than contorting themselves to reach the harder parts, but because it also felt nice to have another's hands running through their feathers.

Sherlock was well aware that John was a sentimental idiot sometimes.

Resting on the cool wood were two feathers. One dark grey, one brown. He recognised them as his own and John's, respectively.

John had cleaned up after they'd groomed each other. These two feathers in particular were from the darker periods of their lives, and they'd been ready to come out to make place for newer, lighter ones. Sherlock felt something warm in his chest; John had kept a feather from each of them and placed them on the mantelpiece. Many items were up there – the skull, letters Sherlock received (and promptly stabbed with a knife), and so on – but all had some significance. John rarely added to the items that were there, but he had this time.

And he'd chosen to put their feathers there.

Sherlock picked them up, pinching the ends between his thumb and forefinger. He studied them in the dim light from the streetlamps outside.

John had added them for a reason.

Even when their old feathers fell out to make room for different ones, ones with new memories behind them, these two would remain there. So, if they happened to start to forget it all, these would still be there, reminding them of the darker times in their lives and making them treasure the moments they had now.

Sherlock put them back on the shelf. Then he hunted for any loose feathers that John had missed, and came up lucky. Before he went back to bed, he laid the light grey and blonde feathers he'd found beside the other two.

Sherlock saw John pause the next morning when he saw them and he half expected John to ask what they were doing there, but the doctor simply smiled to himself and sat in his armchair with a cup of tea. Sherlock kept his expression carefully blank, as if he hadn't noticed, but the warm feeling returned to his chest.

In that moment, Sherlock knew for certain that he didn't regret his jump. They were safe, happy and relaxed.

Sherlock realised with a tiny smile of his own that he was content.


End file.
